


They say we are what we are

by EBDaydreamer



Series: Immortals [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 03:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12289983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EBDaydreamer/pseuds/EBDaydreamer
Summary: Irene receives the news that Sherlock is dead, and decides to pay her respects.





	They say we are what we are

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my Sixteen Fics challenge

**Suicide of Fake Genius**

_ Fell to his death from St. Bartholomew's Hospital _

_ Created all his crimes, notably the ‘notorious Moriarty’, played by actor Richard Brooke _

_ Partner John Watson has remained silent on the issue _

_ Watson claims on blog to believe Holmes _

Irene swiftly turned off the telly, something she should have done the moment they showed a lifeless Sherlock smashed against the pavement. Her mind scrambled as she tried to remember as much information she could through the buzzing in her brain. She faintly made out his loyal assistant John Watson rushing towards the body, a crowd of medics around him. Mostly, she remembered the blood...so much blood. Blood from that beautiful, marvellous brain of his - smashed like it was nothing. There was a true tragedy.

Opening up her phone, Irene checked John’s blog and found his last post. Since her ‘death’ she’d been reading it frequently, leaving the occasional anonymous comment here and there. Unsurprisingly, comments for the last post had been disabled; the onslaught of hate would be too much for the poor man right now.

Irene wouldn’t believe the news. The Great Sherlock Holmes a fraud? No one could fake what he did, and she certainly wasn’t one of these so-called ‘fake’ crimes he solved-

Well, she wouldn’t say he  _ solved  _ the full mystery of Irene Adler. She still had her secrets, yet he would never get the opportunity to solve them.

Sighing forlornly, Irene went off John’s blog and to book the next flight to London: she had a funeral to attend.

***

Packing her things took too much time. She decided to just ship them to her next location; perhaps Paris? Enjoy some theatre whilst she was there.

These thoughts filed meaninglessly through Irene’s head whilst she stood in the graveyard, waiting restlessly for John to leave. Though she was heavily disguised, she didn’t fancy taking any chances.

Finally, he left, a final plea in his wake, and Irene moved towards his grave.

“Hello Mr Holmes,” she whispered. “We must stop meeting like this.”

Irene examined the stone: horribly plain, not at all what he deserved. Flowers were placed in front of it, god he’d hate that. Smirking to herself, she twirled the single deep red rose between her finger. He’d hate that the most, especially when he decoded what it meant.

“I know when we met, I purposefully made it near impossible for you to deduce anything on sight. Now, I’d love nothing more…” Irene inhaled sharply, choking down those threatening tears, that pesky sentiment.

Oh what the hell! She’d given into that sentiment the second she changed her password. Amazingly, he’d returned it when he flew miles to save her life in Karachi, then stayed the night as they bandaged each other up and probably confessed and did more than they should.

“I’d love for you to deduce every little detail about me...just to hear your voice, to listen to that brain of yours work just once more.”

PING

With a scoff, Irene whipped out her phone, ready to send an irritated dismissal text to whoever it was. She didn’t recognise the number, but what the text read made her throat close up and heart leap inside her mouth:

‘I’m not dead.   
Let’s have dinner.   
SH’

“Interesting choice of flower,” a cool voice came from behind her, making Irene nearly jump out of her skin and face the voice.

She didn’t even attempt to hide her slack jaw or wide, hopeful eyes; she just soaked him in. He stood with his usual confidence, his famed coat on his shoulders and scarf on his neck. His eyes held a guilty, yet pleading look, clearly feeling sorry for the pain he was putting people through. His light smile held something she’d only ever seen in the dim lighting of their room in Karachi: uncertainty. 

“A single, dark red rose,” he stepped closer, silently asking for permission to continue.

She shuffled ever so slightly towards him; she wanted a deduction, after all.

“The rose typically shows affection and passion. A dark shade of red represents a kind of unconscious beauty as well as holding an aura of mystery...yet they leave nothing unsaid.” He took another step closer; she could hear his breathing now. “A single rose can mean a number of things: utmost devotion, thank you, love at first sight,” with each accusation he took another step closer, and she now had to tilt her head to sustain eye contact. He was so close, she could reach out and touch him, grab his wrist, perhaps. Yet she was frozen in place, eyes following his as he continued: “A single rose could be a sign that you will never cease to think about the recipient, it is a sign of unwavering affection…” They are almost pressed against each other now, and there is no doubt in her mind that he’s real. His arm manoeuvres through the little space between them, tilting up her chin and cupping her jaw. He leant in, whispering in her ear, “It is a sign of forever.”

At last, she reacted, running her hands along his chest, gathering his attention. She drowned in the sharp eyes she thought she’d never see again before scanning every inch of his face and finding not a scratch, until her gaze found his lips.

She had a million questions she should ask first:  _ who, what, when, why, how... _ but they all got lost as she finally kissed him again.

It was softer than in Karachi, less fumbling and desperate and adrenaline-fueled, more calm and reassuring and, daresay, tender.

***

She broke it off, letting their foreheads rest against each other. His eyes remained closed as he let himself have the first moment of peace since he jumped off St. Barts. Startled, he jerked them open when he felt something against his lips - just Irene’s thumb removing her favoured colour from his own lips.

Questions lingered behind her eyes, but he couldn’t answer them now; didn’t have the time or energy. Instead, he offered up, “I need to disappear for a while and there’s a woman I know who seems particularly good at being dead. I don’t suppose she’d be willing to help me take down one of history’s finest criminal networks?”

Slipping her hands back to her sides, letting the rose fall to the ground, she stepped back and hissed, “He’s going to be mad and hurt when he finds out, Sherlock. You could do some irreparable damage.”

“I don’t have a choice, Woman,” he croaked, his exhaustion seeping through. “Now, I’ve been dead five days and I’m already struggling. Mycroft suggests that whilst Mrs. Hudson is out and John is incapable of returning to the flat now is the time to gather some necessities and leave the country. Start hitting some of Moriarty’s stations. Care to join?”

Irene stepped back, considering him, appearing almost sorry for him. “Is Paris on your list?”

“A place like Paris? That’s almost certainly on Moriarty’s list,” he replied.

“Fancy going there first?” He nodded, relieved that she seemed fine to help him - he loathed to admit that he could use it. “Then, Mr Holmes, you’ve got yourself a deal.” Leaning down, she moved the dropped rose from the mud to sit with the other flowers that were of crude, violently upbeat colours compared to her rose.

That’s The Woman: always standing out, even in death.

He was dead too now, God that would take some getting used to.

“So, Baker Street?”


End file.
